


Portrait of the Artist, Loved

by atheartagentleman



Series: Distractions [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, so much fluff it will rot your teeth and give you diabetes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:17:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheartagentleman/pseuds/atheartagentleman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are full and lazy, content to lie like lizards in the sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portrait of the Artist, Loved

For a few days in April, it’s summer, before the weather turns cold again and the months morph seamlessly into autumn. It was Eponine’s idea to take food to the park, and now they lounge in the detritus of a cobbled-together picnic. Empty packs of salami and cheese, weighted down by bottles of lemonade so they won’t fly away, and bread-crumbs a constant lure for the shameless sparrows. They are full and lazy, content to lie like lizards in the sun. Enjolras is propped on one elbow, using the other hand to gesticulate as he explains some particularly intractable piece of injustice to Eponine, who listens attentively, but regularly raises the Sceptical Eyebrow of Admonishment when Enjolras gets too carried away. Grantaire is lounging across half the old curtain they are using for a picnic blanket, his head on Eponine’s exposed lower back, a battered book held aloft. He is ignoring their chatter entirely, letting it blend into the sounds of the park around them, and enjoying its musicality without heeding its meaning.

He picks up the shift in their tone though, as their words get sharper and more acrimonious, and decides that an intervention is called for, before either of them goes into an Almighty Snit and ruins the afternoon entirely. Feigning absolute ignorance of the argument he is interrupting, Grantaire clears his throat:

‘Hey guys, listen to this: “The esthetic emotion is therefore static. The mind is arrested and raised above desire and loathing.”’

He’s pretending to read it aloud from the pages of his book, but the truth is that this passage is not due for a few chapters yet. He has read it so often, he has it memorised and automatically elides the unnecessary parentheses. He’s still not sure whether or not he agrees with it.

The near-argument stops (mission accomplished), and he can practically _hear_ Enjolras tilting his head in confusion (his hair brushes his shoulder when he does that, and it’s so very lovely) as he slowly replies.

‘I’m... not actually sure I know what that means...’

‘Well, it’s contrasting tragedy, which this character says is proper art, with all these kinds of improper art, which is the kind of art that makes you feel desire and loathing, which are supposedly “kinetic”. Whereas tragedy makes you stop, it brings you up short. And I can sort of see his point, because when you see something really beautiful – and tragic – your brain kind of does a double-take and you end up frozen for a bit. Except there’s this massive problem as well,’ Grantaire is warming to his theme now, although he still hasn’t moved. ‘Because, I mean, just look at the word ‘emotion’. It’s got the idea of movement embedded in it. And you say things like ‘moved to tears’. I also resent the notion that anything that makes you experience desire or loathing is inherently ‘improper art’, like those somehow aren’t valid reactions to art. Because they totally are. Any reaction to art is a valid reaction, as long as it’s yours. I mean, of course, the whole thing was written from this super-religious, classics-inspired perspective, so it makes sense in that context, and I do agree about beauty being something that makes you stop, but I’m just not convinced that this “arrest” is final, or the only appropriate reaction.’

He concludes his rambling and immediately feels foolish. He had only meant to interrupt them long enough that they would forget to argue with one another. Providing an entire diatribe about a single few sentences of _Portrait of the Artist_ had not been part of the plan.

‘Huh.’ Eponine’s back shifts under his head as she huffs. ‘You know, I think I totally missed that passage when I read the book, but you’re right.’

Grantaire scrambles ungracefully up to a sitting position at that, twisting around so that he can peer down at Eponine, utterly incredulous.

‘I lent you my copy. That bit is underlined like three times,’ he brandishes the book to demonstrate. ‘How did you manage to miss it?’

‘Because you took it back off me after a week or so, and I finished it from a library copy, which didn’t have all your favourite bits marked out.’

Enjolras tips his head back in laughter, and Grantaire’s heart sings at the sound.

‘You and James Joyce, R, the greatest love story never told. And woe betide anyone who comes between you.’

‘Hey! You wouldn’t sound so smug if someone tried to take _your_ books from you!’

‘R, _you_ lent it to _me_ , I didn’t steal anything,’ Eponine interjects, setting the record straight.

‘Hmph. I see how it is. Let’s all gang up on poor old R, and after he’s been so nice and shared his deepest musings on great works of literature, too.’

Grantaire sticks his tongue out and turns his back to them again with a pointed sniff.

‘Shift back to where you were, Ep. My pillow should not move.’

She swipes at his head in response, but obliges anyway, and he lays back down to rest his head in the crook of her spine and resumes his reading.

‘Drama queen.’

‘I heard that!’ he singsongs in response.

‘You were meant to,’ is Enjolras’ prompt reply. His face looms in Grantaire’s field of vision, hair like a curtain, casting his beautiful face into shadow. They keep eye contact for a moment, and R smirks up at his boyfriend, his expression a clear challenge. Enjolras doesn’t rise to it. Instead, his mouth merely quirks up in a smile, and he leans down to brush a fond kiss to Grantaire’s nose, before retreating to his spot on the blanket, where Grantaire can no longer see him. He and Eponine resume their conversation, but their voices remain warm and happy. Grantaire says nothing and hides his grin in the pages of his book, but he feels so at peace he could burst with it.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not sue me for any dental/diabetes-related bills you may incur as a result of reading this fic.
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr. I'm at-heart-a-gentleman


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